


Affirmation

by Tierfal



Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come on.  What is there to care about?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

> The [version on LJ](http://community.livejournal.com/tierfallen/73637.html) is more fun, because Jenwryn and I wrote more in the comments.

Hey, I don't care.

We're just fuckbuddies. That's what we decided on—mutually, together. I figure it's mostly because this shit is just _that_ intense—we've got to blow the steam off somehow, and this way's a lot more private than gambling.

And a lot less expensive.

I also have my suspicions that Mello is a victim of satyriasis.

…yeah, that was the only unit of Psychology I paid any attention to.

Well, who can blame him? It's great. It feels great. It's _liberating_, and warm, and personal right when you need it, when you're starting to forget what the alias stands for.

Not that it's—you know, _personal_-personal. That would defeat the whole purpose of fuckbuddyhood. It's just… real. And anchoring.

Mello wasn't a highly-coveted whore for nothing.

The way I see it, he just needs the affirmation, and the release. It's another service I can dutifully provide.

And I'm fine with that.

I am. It's cool. You know me. Chillin'. So laid-back I might as well be sleeping. It's not like I care.

Come on. What is there to care about?

It's stupid, though—because I know better than anybody how hard it is even to look Mello in the eyes and not fall in love with him. He's just so _much_, so wild, so over-the-top that he's on a first-name basis with the weather balloons—but when you get close enough, and look hard enough, and the bravado slips and shines like cellophane… you start to see the fissures where the whole of him falls to pieces. You start to see how fragile the cussing and the confidence really are. You start to see that neither gleaming leather nor a crucifixion carried on his chest are enough to fill the empty place, and you start to see the creeping horror than nothing ever will be.

And that's just looking.

Touching—learning—_melting_ with him, with that, with the nightmare-daydream crucible that he is… I should have known from the start what that would do.

Maybe I did.

Maybe that's why I took it when he gave.


End file.
